Page 87 of A Sea of Unspoken Things

Micah.

He stood only inches away, his blond hair swept back and his sun-warmed skin more golden in the low light. His black jacket and tie were cut close to the line of him, and it was such a paradoxical scene that a smile broke on my lips. No haircut. No shiny watch.

“I thought you said you were never going to be that guy in a tux,” I said, my voice as brittle as snow.

“Guess I figured out I can be anything if I’m with you.”

He held out his hand, waiting for me to take it. When I slipped my fingers into his, they closed around mine. Instantly, that quiet was back, encircling us. Like we weren’t in the gallery at all. Like there was a space that only the two of us created.

His eyes lifted over me and I turned to face the painting, my bare shoulder touching his.

He looked at it for a long moment, his voice deep and steady beside me. “What the hell is it?”

I stifled a laugh, pressing my fingers to my mouth, and when I turned to look at him again, there were tears in my eyes. Slowly, my hands found his face and I pulled him low to kiss me. The soft, gentle press of his lips was like fitting myself into a shape I was made for.

“What do you want, James?” he said, hands feeling the shape of me beneath the silk of my dress.

The question felt like finding land, and my answer was a boat running ashore.

“I want you to take me home.”

Thirty-One

I’d believed my whole life that there was no me without Johnny. It turns out, I was wrong.

My fingers smudged the edges of the charcoal as I sat at the drafting table in the sunroom, racing against the dying light. Micah had converted it into a studio for me after I moved in, and I spent the hours he was gone working in it with Smoke curled at my feet.

Wherever there wasn’t a window, the wood-paneled walls were covered in iterations of the pieces I’d been working on, and my fingers were perpetually stained with pigment and ink. I lifted my arms over my head, stretching through the tightness coiled around my spine, and my belly hit the table, jostling the pencils. I caught one before it rolled off the edge.

I’d recently graduated to wearing Micah’s sweatpants because everything in the closet no longer fit, and it didn’t matter if I was sitting, standing, or walking—I couldn’t get comfortable no matter what I did. Hours at the drafting table were becoming less and less feasible, but I could feel the world shifting around me. Everything was about to change. Again.

Micah’s shadow moved over the floor and he pressed a kiss on top of my head, a bowl coming down through the air in front of me.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m almost finished.” I reached for a new piece of charcoal and he caught my hand, turning me toward him.

“Eat,” he said again.

I peered down into the bowl of stew, my mouth watering. “Fine.”

He went and got his own bowl, sinking into the armchair beside me. I propped my feet up on his knee, taking a bite.

“Quinn’s invited us down for the exhibition at CAS next week.” I spoke around a mouth full of food.

His eyebrows lifted.

There was a gala planned to celebrate the conservation effort, where the work of Johnny and the other contributors would be displayed. Features were being written on each of them, and Johnny’s photographs would have their own gallery at the event.

“It’s black-tie,” I added. “And youarea tux man now.”

He laughed. “Johnny would have hated that.”

“He really would have.”

Johnny would have called the gala a hypocritical waste of money. In fact, he probably would have drunk too much and offended someone before being asked to leave. Just thinking about it made me smile.

“Do you want to go?” Micah asked.